When Warren woke, he was already home. New York, the onetime heart of American, was now an urban sprawl that covered just under half of the state. Checking his COMM pad on the military shuttle, Warren confirmed he was on a two-week pass—that he'd be able to enjoy his first extended break from operation NEW HORIZON. There was a note on the pass from Warren's CO detailing the injuries sustained by the marines on his last mission. All of Warren's fire-team had survived with minor injuries. But others hadn't been so lucky. The note said nothing about civilian casualties. But Warren remembered the force of the blast, and he doubted any had survived.

He tried not to think—let his mind go blank—as he boarded a passenger train from the terminal. Only later, when Warren stepped out onto the elevated platform of the Grove terminal, did the hot and humid air of a late summer snap his senses back into focus. As the sun dove to a fiery finish, he enjoyed what little breeze was coming off the harour—lukewarm gusts that hammered up the east-west blocks of tumbledown gray-stone apartments, scattering the autumn leaves of the sidewalk maples.

Arms laded with duffel bags, and wearing his navy-blue dress pants, collared shirt, and cap,Warren was drenched with sweat by the time he reached The Helios, a centre for active retirement—or so its hospitality computer told him—as he stepped into the tower's stifling lobby. Warren's Auntie had moved to the complex a few years after he'd joined the military, vacating the same walk up apartment on Blackstone Avenue they'd shared since Warren was a boy. His aunt's health was failing, and she'd needed the extra care. And more to the point: she was lonely without him.

As Warren waited for an elevator that would take him up to the thirty-seventh floor, he stared into a recreation room filled with many of the center's bald and silver-haired residents. Most were clustered around a video display tuned to one of the public news channels. There was a report of fresh Insurgence attacks in Moscow, a series of bombings that had killed thousands of civilians all across Europe and more news on the Israeli situation. As usual, the broadcast featured a spokesman who flatly denied the military's campaign was faltering. But Warren knew the facts: The Insurgence had already claimed more than a million lives; their attacks were becoming more effective, and the reprisals more heavy-handed. It was an ugly 'world' war that wasn't getting any prettier.

One of the residents in the rec room, a man with a deeply lined face and a crown of wiry gray hair, spotted Warren and frowned. He whispered something to a large woman in a colorful housedress, overflowing her wheelchair by his side. Soon all the residents that weren't hard of hearing or too dim-sighted to see Warren's uniform were nodding and clucking— some with respect, others with scorn. Warren had almost changed into his civilian clothes on the shuttle to avoid just this sort of uncomfortable reaction. But in the end he'd decided to stick with his dress uniform for his aunt's sake. She'd waited a long time to see her nephew come home all spit and polish.

The elevator was even warmer than the lobby. But inside his aunt's apartment the air was so frigid, Warren could see his breath.

"Auntie?" he called, dropping his duffels on the well-worn blue carpet of her living room. The bottles of bourbon he'd bought at the terminal duty-free clinked together. He didn't know if his aunt's doctors were letting her drink, but he did know how much she used to enjoy an occasional glass. "Where are you?" But there was no reply.

The flower-patterned walls of the living room were covered with picture frames. Some were very old—faded prints of long-dead relatives his aunt used to talk about as if she'd known them personally. Most of the frames held stills: three-dimensional pictures from his aunt's lifetime. He saw his favourite, the one of his teenage aunt standing on the shore of Lake Michigan in a honey-bee striped bathing suit and wide straw hat. She was pouting at the camera and its cameraman, Warren's uncle, who had passed away before he was born.

Warren rubbed his palm against a large holo-still near the bedroom door.

Me, he grimaced, remembering the day his aunt had taken the still. Wiping downward, his mind filled with memories: the suffocating pinch of his freshly starched oxford shirt; the smell of carnauba wax, liberally applied, to mask the scuffs in his oversized, wingtip shoes. Growing up, Warren's clothes were almost always worn out hand-me-downs from distant cousins that were never quite big enough for his tall, broad-shouldered frame. "Just as they should be," his aunt had said, smiling, holding up new pieces of his wardrobe for inspection.

"Now don't you look handsome," his aunt had cooed the day she'd taken the picture. Then, as she'd done up his little tie: "So much like your mother. So much like your father," according to assessments of an inheritance Warren hadn't understood. There had been no pictures of his parents in his aunt's old house—and there were none in her apartment now. Although she'd never once said anything unkind about them, these bittersweet comparisons had been her only praise.

"Auntie? You in there?" Warren asked, knocking softly on her bedroom door. Again, there was no answer.

He remembered the sound of raised voices behind other closed doors—the angry end of his parents' marriage. His father had left his mother so distraught that she could no longer care for herself, let alone an active, six-year-old boy. He took one last look at the holo-still: argyle socks beneath neatly cuffed tan slacks; an unabashed smile, no less sincere for his aunt's prompting.

'How many?' he hissed. His face was red with rage, and his fists were clenched on the surface of his desk. 'Tell me again!'

'Six, sir,' answered Major General Hambleton. 'Six missing, with a seventh discovered fifty kilometres to the northeast, spread across two-and-a-half kilometres of desert. All hands lost. Do you wish to hear a list of the individual elements?'

'Of course I do,' snapped SeanDKnight. 'Seven drop-ships on the first day!'

Major General Hambleton's voice didn't waver as he read off the list, but his tone was heavy and his face betrayed a grim mood. 'Drop-ship E44-a, the 116th Rifles, companies one and two, killed on descent. Drop-ship G22-a, the 122nd Fusiliers, companies one to four, missing. Drop-ship G41-b, the 88th Mobile Infantry, companies three and four, missing. Dropship H17-C, the 303rd Rifles, companies eight to ten, missing. Drop-ship H19-a, the 98th Mechanised Infantry, companies one to six, missing. Drop-ship K22-C, the 71st Infantry, companies eight to ten, missing.' Hambleton paused for a split second before reading the final listing. The missing ship had been carrying some of his own tankers. 'Drop-ship M13-J, the 81st Armoured Regiment, 10th Company, missing. No contact whatsoever from any of those listed.'

SeanDKnight listened quietly to all this, staggered by the blow his forces had taken just from landing on this damned rock. Thousands of men gone. It was outrageous. The last listing was a tank company? An entire tank company, lost somewhere out there in the desert, most probably killed in the crash. Filthy Socks were probably looting the site even now.

'It's a damned fiasco! How could we lose seven drop-ships on the first day? Was it Socks? Storms? What the heck are our naval liaisons saying about this? What about the Engineers? I want answers, damn it!' Veins bulged in his neck and his eyes looked ready to pop out of his head.

The three officers seated before him remained as still as statues while their general raged. They had seen it all before, and with increasing regularity of late. They knew better than to interrupt him before his tirade had ended. Attempting to soothe him was just asking for trouble. When SeanDKnight finally did stop spewing fire and sank slowly back into his chair, it was DarkBlood, who spoke up.

'The Engineers have a team out in the desert, sir. They're studying the drop-ship in the north-east for the cause of the crash. No word yet, of course, since they're out of communication range.'

DarkBlood winced as soon as she said this, realising immediately that she had just poured fuel on the fire. Predictably, SeanDKnight pounced.

'Out of bloody communication range?' he roared, and launched into an entirely fresh diatribe. Communications equipment was almost useless on MyIGN. According to the Engineers, there were profound levels of electromagnetic interference from the constant storms that cloaked this world. The Engineering contingent attached to the mission had promised a solution in due course, but, for now, communications at any range greater than a dozen kilometres simply degenerated into white noise.

He knew that shouting at his divisional commanders was poor therapy, and achieved very little. He would be relying on these men above all others in the days ahead. They would help him secure his prize, his legacy, his place among the good and the great. No, shouting at them didn't help anyone. He forced his voice back down to normal levels. Ten minutes later, after a brief review of the schedule for their coming deployment, he dismissed them so that they might dress for the banquet. As the three senior officers stood and saluted him, SeanDKnight briefly considered apologising for his earlier explosiveness.

No, he told himself. Let my anger stand as a message that I expect far better. I won't have them thinking me weak. Weakness in any form was something SeanDKnight could not abide, especially his own.

**********

SeanDKnight stole an hour of sleep after the briefing, though it seemed to him that only seconds had passed before his adjutant shook him gently awake so that he might wash and dress for the banquet.

Two hours later, he found himself standing at the head of a long wood table in a bright, high-ceilinged room, ringing his goblet with a silver fork and asking his guests for their undivided attention.

'Officers,' he began, beaming at them with theatrical magnanimity, 'and, of course, my other honoured guests, I thank you all for taking the time to attend. It's only right that we celebrate. Tonight, we mark the true start of our holy quest with the best that our circumstances allow. Look at you; I am proud of you all, seated here, dressed so smartly, so ready and willing. Prouder, I will be when we find our prize. What a moment that will be! One for the history books, indeed. I'm sure you've all dreamed of it as much as I have: the fame, the glory, Army Group Exolon recovering the legendary Chobot from right under the nose of the old foe. Yes! For ever after, men will read of our exploits with awe. Let none of you doubt that. There is no cause greater than that which inspires one's fellow man.'

He scanned the faces around the table, daring anyone to pay him less than full attention, and was pleased to see every eye, including several unblinking mechanical ones, turned in his direction.

'We could not have asked for a higher honour,' he told them. 'I've heard mutterings among the men, just as you have, talk of wishing to join our brothers elsewhere. Such talk is to be expected. Exolon is, after all, a fighting man's army, and our men want to make a difference. I appreciate their eagerness, for I too would see us lend our much-needed strength sooner rather than later. But all things in their proper time. We can offer so much more by claiming victory here. Through the successful recovery and restoration of The Chobot this army will provide our brothers with a renewed strength of purpose and determination that no amount of reinforcement could possibly hope to offer. The Chobot is not just another weapon as you all should know. She is a symbol of everything we stand for: of strength and honour, of courage and duty, of unbending resistance against the foul that strive to wipe us from the face of the galaxy. I say her recovery is long overdue. So, join me in a toast. Fill your glasses, all of you.'

SeanDKnight waited as his guests sloshed cool golden liquor into goblets of fine black crystal. They were senior officers for the most part. His three divisional commanders, having changed out of their field tunics and into their finest dress uniforms, all looked splendid. The gold accoutrements on their lapels and breast pockets gleamed brightly in the light of the overhead lamps. The other officers present were regimental commanders from the 8th Mechanised and 12th Heavy Infantry Divisions, some of them colonels, the rest majors. They had also smartened themselves up adequately; though more than a few bore grisly facial scars that somewhat ruined the overall effect.

The more human guests had filled their glasses and were pushing their chairs back so that they might rise to their feet for the general's toast.

SeanDKnight turned his eyes away from the officers. Much nearer and, thankfully, much easier to behold, were Cheif CallSignStarBucks and High Commissar Maguireboy. The Cheif, seated on the general's immediate right, was a tall, almost skeletally thin man with a prodigiously long nose. His tanned skin shimmered with a coating of the most expensive and richly-scented oils, and precious gems glittered from the rings that graced each of his long fingers.

It was much more than could be said for his counterpart. The high commissar, seated on the general's immediate left, was a striking figure of a man, clearly of fine noble stock, dressed immaculately in his gold-braided tunic and black silk shirt. Such were Maguireboy's good looks that the only other man present whose features stood up to any kind of comparison was Major General Hambleton, whom SeanDKnight always thought looked just as if he'd stepped straight out of a recruitment poster.

As was only proper, High Commissar Maguireboy had dispensed with his stiffened cap while at the table, but it was impossible to look at the man without seeing the ghost of it still perched firmly on his head, such was the strength of his identity. He was, in SeanDKnight's opinion, the quintessential political officer. Unswerving and utterly uncompromising in his duty, he had served with him since the beginning of the war.

All his guests were standing now, their eyes on him, goblets filled and at the ready. SeanDKnight lifted his straight out in front of him, took a breath, and projected his voice.

'To success, gentlemen,' he said. 'To success and victory!'

'Success and victory!' they replied with fervour. Each of the guests threw back his glass and drank.

When they had finished, SeanDKnight gestured them back into their seats, smiling broadly at them.

Major General Jick Hambleton looked down at his plate with absolute revulsion. What the devil was this abomination? The starter had been bad enough - chilled crab with caprium - so obscenely rich that he'd felt his stomach churning, though the Leader’s other guests had seemed to enjoy it immensely. Now the man's servants brought out the main course - quivering mountains of dark red meat that looked dangerously undercooked.

Murmurs of appreciation sounded from around the table, but Hambleton studied the thing on his plate as if it were an alien life form. It sat there glistening wetly in the light from the lamps, its pungent aroma clawing at his nostrils. He hoped the expression of delight he was struggling to maintain was enough to fool him. He looked up the table involuntarily and immediately wished he hadn't. SeanDKnight caught his eye. Hambleton put extra effort into his artificial smile and saw the him grin back, buying into his act. He turned back to the food. Maybe it tastes better than it looks, he thought, but I doubt it.

Lifting his cutlery, Hambleton began slicing bite-sized chunks from the undercooked heart. Spearing one with his fork, he lifted it towards his mouth. Here goes nothing, he told himself, and popped it in. The texture was highly unpleasant, but he was forced to admit that it tasted a lot better than it looked.

While the general's guests concentrated on the main course, the level of conversation dropped, stifled by the efforts of cutting and chewing, and of chasing each mouthful down with a sip of wine. But it wasn't long until most of the plates lay empty save a smear of sauce on each, and a flock of servants emerged from the side corridors to clear them away. Hambleton sat back in silence and watched the others interact. His stomach was threatening to rebel against him.

Cheif CallSignStarBucks dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a white silk napkin and said, 'Exquisite, but quite cruel, don't you think, to acclimatise us to such outstanding fare? I suspect MyIGN offers nothing so delicious or refined.'

SeanDKnight faced the Cheif, but gestured down the table to an Engineering Major. 'The honoured Major,' he said, 'tells me that most of the animal and plant life on this world is fatal if ingested. Is that not so, Major?'

The blaring voice that replied was like a comm unit with the volume turned up too high. Like most of the others, Hambleton winced. 'If you'll permit me, general,' boomed the major, each word toneless and harsh, 'the probability of death would depend on the amount and type of matter ingested, the body-weight and constitution of the individual in question, the availability and quality of medical assistance—'

SeanDKnight held up a hand and cut the tech-priest off mid-sentence. 'Thank you, Major, but that will not be necessary. A simple yes or no would have sufficed.'

'It is not a simple matter,' said the major. 'I shall have a subordinate compile a report for you on the subject. We have significant amounts of relevant data.'

'If you must,' said SeanDKnight, winking at Cheif CallSignStarBucks, 'but I'd rather you just warn me if I'm about to bite down on something I shouldn't.'

You wouldn't want to bite off more than you could chew, thought Hambleton automatically.

'Actually,' continued SeanDKnight, turning from the major, 'I'd like to hear the high commissar's thoughts on this wine.'

At the upper end of the table, High Commissar Maguireboy was answering the general. 'A very fine vintage, sir. This is very expensive stuff. It has a certain citrus quality, you agree? And the significance of his choice…'

'What significance would that be?' asked Cheif CallSignStarBucks.

'Its origin,' said Maguireboy. 'This particular wine is produced exclusively by the distilleries on ‘The Old Blog’. Quite rare.'

'Ah, clever of him,' said a glowing SeanDKnight. 'Wonderful stuff.'

Cheif CallSignStarBucks was frowning. 'I'm afraid I still don't see the connection.'

'Our forces and ‘The Old Blog’ regiments fought side-by-side on this very plateau in the last war,' answered the high commissar. 'Together, they were able to buy our leader and his command staff the time they needed to escape the planet's surface. The Socks swarmed this very plateau just as the lifter ascended. I believe there were several popular blogs published about the battle.'

A moment of quiet descended on the table as the fighting men present muttered a quick prayer for the fallen. It was Major General DarkBlood that broke the spell.

'I don't suppose any of you have read Sharodan?' she asked. 'I've seen a few of my troopers with their noses in tattered copies.'

'Finally taught your lot to read, eh?' said Hambleton with a grin.

DarkBlood laughed heartily, chasing off the last of the sombre mood that had momentarily fallen on the table. 'You can talk, treadhead. Your lot still think they need to take toilet paper to the mess tent. Must be all those fumes.'

The colonels seated nearby laughed out loud, prone to engage in a bit of good-natured ribbing themselves at times, but SeanDKnight coughed sharply into his hand, and the sound cut through the laughter like a knife. The expression on the general's face sent a clear message: not the time, not the place.

Fair enough, thought Hambleton. It's your show.

High Commissar Maguireboy sat forward; ice blue eyes fixed on DarkBlood, and said, 'I'm not sure I approve, major general.' Seeing DarkBlood's face redden, he added, 'Of troopers reading Sharodan, I mean. His work is very fantastical. But NOT suitable material for front-line troops. Dreadful recruitment material, too. The way he chastises us. If it were up to me, I'd have the text prohibited under article six.'

Hambleton resisted the urge to roll his eyes. First offences under article six meant the lash. It seemed a little harsh for reading a bit of poetry, he thought.

'Come now, commissar,' said AngryMrBungle. 'Isn't it quite popular with the civs?'

'Civilians?' said Maguireboy. 'I hardly think so. The last I heard, their entertainment is filled with sex and unstoppable heroes.'

'What have you got against unstoppable heroes?' asked DarkBlood, smirking. 'I like to think you're dining with at least one.'

SeanDKnight lifted his glass and said, 'I'll drink to that!'

Hambleton stifled a groan. He could hardly cope with consuming more food, but there was little choice. Propriety made harsh demands. He doubted he could get away with refusing to partake of the sweetened fruit. He had had quite a few glasses of wine, but his eyes were missing nothing. It had crossed Hambleton's mind that the whole event might have been orchestrated to serve a double purpose. He didn't doubt that the general wished to celebrate - SeanDKnight was voracious when it came to attention and respect - but it wouldn't have surprised him if the old man was also using the banquet as an opportunity to gauge the mood among his officers and to root out potential troublemakers. It was hardly an original method. One of the divisional commanders would have to replace him one day. Hambleton knew that AngryMrBungle was only too eager to step in and take over whenever the chance came up.

He wasn't sure about DarkBlood yet. When the wine was flowing and the room was filled with chatter, it was easy to let one's guard down, confident that those around you were likewise swept up in the bonhomie. Hambleton had been careful to sip slowly, conscious that he would be leading his troops out before dawn. Now, he was glad of that, certain that Sean was watching all of them like a hawk.

He stabbed his dessert fork into a slice of fruit and, slowly, mechanically, chewed and swallowed, hardly tasting it at all.

There’s a man who understands this quest, thought SeanDKnight. Good officer, Hambleton. Look at him, limiting his drink, careful not to gorge himself, mindful of tomorrow and the pressures on him. Not like some of these others. Damn, but I like this one. I like him a lot. Reminds me of myself.

SeanDKnight rose unsteadily to his feet and addressed his guests for the last time that evening. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'my adjutant tells me that the hour is late and, as you know, the 10th Armoured Division is rolling out tomorrow to secure the first of our waypoints. Major General Hambleton should be in his bunk, and I dare say the rest of you need more than your share of beauty sleep, but I have a few words for you before you disperse.'

His guests turned their heads towards him.

'Operation Thunderstorm is off to a fine, auspicious start. I've thoroughly enjoyed your company this evening and I thank you for helping me to mark this occasion in such a fitting manner.' His eyes settled for a brief moment on each of them, and he nodded in agreement with his own words as he said, 'We've dangerous business ahead. The filthy Socks aren't about to make it easy for us. There's nothing they love more than a fight, and they'll come in their millions once they know our men have returned to this place. Soon, our Major General Hambleton here will be giving them their first taste of lead in almost forty days, and there'll be plenty more to follow! We'll make the bastards suffer. It's time to remind them whose bloody galaxy this is.'

'Hear, hear!' called out one of DarkBlood's colonels, earning him a broad grin from SeanDKnight. Some of the other officers lifted their glasses.

'Yes,' said SeanDKnight, 'lift your glasses, all of you. A final toast.'

Around the table, the necks of tall decanters clinked against goblet rims. Each guest rose from his seat, some less steadily than others.

SeanDKnight turned to Cheif CallSignStarBucks. 'Through the counsel of the Chief, may we never be lost.'

The Cheif nodded sincerely, as if he would personally make it so.

‘Aye,' replied the men around the table.

SeanDKnight turned next to High Commissar Maguireboy and said, 'Through the uncompromising vigilance of our tireless commissar, may our hearts never falter.'

Maguireboy tilted his head in acknowledgement.

'Aye.'

The general gestured at each of the engineering officers in turn with his glass. 'Through the wisdom and scientific mastery of the Engineering Corp, may our guns blaze fierce and our engines never stall.'

‘Aye,' said the officers,

'God above,' the general went on, 'even the Navy is doing its part!'

'May we not also raise our glasses to Major General Hambleton?' asked High Commissar Maguireboy. He turned to face Hambleton down the length of the table and said, 'The very best of luck to you, sir, in your coming assault on ‘Newsfeed’. The Socks will crumble before you and the might of your glorious tanks.'

'Hear, hear!' agreed the other officers noisily.

'Thank you, high commissar,' said Hambleton. 'I'm confident my division will more than live up to the general's expectations.'

‘Hear, hear!' chorused the guests, and together, they drained their glasses. Sean’s servants emerged from the side corridor again to withdraw the chairs from around the table, signalling an end to the Leader's soiree. As the guests started filing out of the room's broad double-doors, each saluting him as they went, Hambleton stayed in his chair, poking at his food, pondering, what this war would bring.

'FORM UP, YOU ASS LICKERS!' roared an ugly, skin-headed ZephyrGamgee with a pockmarked face. 'You know the bloody drill. By the numbers!'

The floor of the starboard-side hangar clanged with the sound of men snapping to attention. The troopers stood in formation, company by company, while their sergeants prowled back and forth like hungry wolves, eyes sharp, hunting keenly for the slightest signs of sloppiness. Hulking drop-ships sat behind the ordered ranks of men, their boarding ramps lowered, internal lights glaring yellow inside dark, gunmetal hulls.

A loud, hydraulic hiss sounded on the right of the massive chamber, and a thick door split down the middle, each half sliding backwards into the wall with a cough of oily steam. The metal floor rang with the crisp, pleasing tattoo of dozens of booted feet marching briskly into the hangar.

'Officers on deck!' yelled another of the sergeants. Thick veins throbbed at his temple with the effort of projecting his voice unaided to almost ten thousand men.

When the officers had halted and turned to face the assembled troops, the oldest of the group, AngryMrBungle - a stocky man with lumpy scar-tissue in place of his left ear - strode forwards and proudly stated, 'All men present and accounted for, sir. Vehicles already onboard, lashed and locked. Flight and tech-crews ready for the go. Companies awaiting permission to load.'

Their great general, stood at the centre of the group of officers, in a smart uniform of deep green with glittering golden epaulets. Today was the last day that he would be able to wear the colours for a while. The duration of the campaign would see everyone clothed in camouflaging fatigues of MyIGN.

General Hambleton nodded at the man in front of him and was about to issue the boarding command when SeanDKnight - tall, dark and broad-shouldered - leaned close and whispered a few words in his ear. Hambilton frowned a little at first but finally nodded his agreement. He stepped forward, accepted a microphone from the adjutant on his left, held the mouthpiece in front of his lips, and cleared his throat. The sound echoed back at him from the vast bulkheads.

'Those of you with me long enough know that I dislike long speeches,' he said. 'Something best left to your commissars and cheifs, I think, to men who have a particular talent for it.'

Commissar Maguireboy, the regiment's political officer, dressed as ever in the black and gold of his office, bowed slightly at the compliment. Chief CallSignStarBucks, on the other hand, a flush-faced man, merely swayed a little as if standing in a strong breeze that only he could feel.

'However,' continued the general, 'as our great leader Sean has rightly reminded me, we face something unprecedented in our history. If a situation ever warranted a departure from my typical reticence, it is this one, for we are about to set foot on a world firmly and completely in the hands of the hated sock.

It was Hambleton's particular habit to refer to the foe in the singular. Some of the men did a pretty good impersonation of him, though never with any malice. There was tremendous love and respect for the general among those who had served under him for any length of time. It was well earned. Those men whose jibes contained an edge of genuine insult, quickly found themselves isolated, cast out by their fellows. Such exclusion was as good as a death sentence.

'Some of us have fought the sock before,' he continued, 'and with notable success. Our victories stand us in good stead, though many of you, I suppose, had yet to be born at the time of the latter. Still, the point is this: we know the sock. We know that together, man and machine, soldier and tanker, we are stronger than the sock. We know that we can beat the sock. We've proved it time after time.'

He found himself stunned by how young some of the most recent reinforcements looked when standing next to their more experienced peers. By god, he thought, some of them are practically children! Was I ever so fresh-faced?

'Could SeanDKnight be any more fortunate than to have you roll out under his command? I hardly think so. Yes, I've heard the mutterings among you. I've sensed your dark mood. Why send us to attack here, you still wonder, when our kin are so pressed by the Sock elsewhere? What difference, you ask, can we make out here on a place still untouched by the Knight’s light? Well, let me tell you something. Listen closely, now, because I want you to understand it. I believe in this operation! Do you hear me? I believe in it. Our success will make a difference to our beleaguered brothers that you can scarcely imagine. Our triumphant return will re-energise them as nothing else can. Those of you who doubt it will understand once you lay eyes on the prize. Until that moment, I know you'll do whatever it takes, give your every bead of sweat, your last drop of blood if necessary, for the honour and tradition of our proud armies, for the glory and for the everlasting dominion of the SeanDKnight.'

He scanned their faces for signs of open dissent and found none. Instead, their response to his words was both immediate and deafening.

'For SeanDKnight!' they roared and, like his own amplified words, the sound echoed back at him from the hangar walls.

He grinned at them, eager not to dwell on the doubts he secretly carried. 'Darkblood,' he said, 'get these brave soldiers loaded up!'

'Aye, sir,' said one of the generals, and he threw up a salute that was so sharp it could have cut glass. He turned, took a deep breath, and roared at the men, 'Right you lot, you heard the general. About face! Squad leaders, take 'em in nice and clean!'

Hey guys, if you read this, at the end in the comments section could you just leave a comment saying 'read'. I'm starting to get disheartened and wondering if anyone reads this story. Thanks, Maguireboy.

THE INVADERS

Chapter One: Black Out

-:- Part Two -:-

Highlands, Tamee State

Zelraa

That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, Ut Queton didn’t feel like a child any more. Spring - warm, eager, restless - was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody to run up, to blow in his young face, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand, old Ryygen was gone, the new master had arrived two days ago and god, was he a bastard.

Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet all the people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trains clanked, the cars bowled along with that reckless, defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams.

It had been a day like other days at school. Nothing special had happened. He couldn't help a grim smile as he began to climb the hill that led to his home. Where would his mother be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know?

By this time he had walked the length of the street; he had reached the corner house, his house. The carriage gates were pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle curtains floating outwards. He made his way to the front door, large as it was, he strained his muscles opening it.

‘Ut? Ut is that you?’ a voice rang out from the kitchen.

‘Yes mother.’ Replied Ut. He set his bag down by the door and made his way to the kitchen, slipping his shoes off along the path.

‘Why are you so late? It’s nearly dark-out.’ his mother asked. Ut entered to see her making dinner. It looked to be Getta pie, he couldn’t be sure.

‘I decided to walk home.’ He answered. His mother nodded as she searched the drawers for a knife.

‘Alright… could you get the candles ready for me, please?’ his mother asked. He didn’t reply, he simply done what he was told, getting candles out of a drawer and setting them around the kitchen. It amazed him, how in such a time of technological advancement, they had to resort to the basics of life. One by oine he placed them down, and one by one he lit them. From the kitchen, his mother called.

‘Ut, what’s the time?’

‘Got five minutes mum!’ He replied. He entered the kitchen to be meet with his mother serving up dinner at the table. He entered, sitting down on his chair, looking out the window to pumes of smoke rising in the far distance, concealing the fires behind them. Ut continued his daily routine; devouring dinner and then retreating to his room. But today, it was different. His mother made an effort.

‘How was your day?’

‘Fine,’ he answered. ‘Same as every day.’ The table was quiet as they ate. Uncomfortably quiet.

‘Have you spoken to your brother?’

‘Which one?’ Ut probed.

‘You know which on…’

‘They’re both criminals mum, one’s just a murderer.’

‘Ut!’

‘What! You think I’ve never seen the cheques or letters from Yazoo? That you throw away when we need!’

‘It’s blood money Ut, We don’t want it.’

‘You don’t want it, and we need it! Dad’s salary hardly enough!’ He said with a raised voice. His mother, Eleka Queton, had gotten off her seat and was walking around the kitchen.

‘It’s enough to live on Ut.’ She said, still quite calm. She busied herself, trying to pay no attention.

‘No it’s not.’ He said below his breath. His mother turned around.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing!’ he retorted. His mother stopped everything. Turning around, she grabbed him forcefully by the arm, enough that it hurt.

‘If you’re big enough to mutter it under your breath, you’re big enough to tell it to me!’

‘I said no it’s not!’ Ut yelled at her, tears started to roll down his cheek. ‘How many men have been around here in the past months?’

His mother gasped, taken aback.

‘How many mum?!’ he yelled. He hit her hand of his arm, she responded with a slap across the cheek.

‘How dare you! I did what I had to do to support you!’

‘NO!’ he shouted, ripping himself free and running out to the hallway. ‘You made a promise to my dad, and you broke it!’

‘UT!’ she yelled. He had opened the front door and was running down the driveway. ‘UT!’ she screamed again. The lights went out, the only illumination were the candles from the house. ‘UT!’ The sirens started, warning everyone of the incoming bombers. ‘UT!’ As the first bombs started to fall, he was gone. Smoke and screams had started to rise. She fell to her knees, sobbing.